Chapter 23 – He's Already Dead

In a place where sunlight never reached, buried beneath the city's forgotten layers, stood the remnants of a long-condemned building.

The twentieth floor creaked under the weight of abandonment. Mold-streaked and cracked walls still bore stains of dried blood, alongside fresh drops, vibrant and wet, that darkened the uneven concrete floor.

The air was a thick stew of rust, mildew, urine, and aged flesh. The window, shattered decades ago, let in only the muffled breath of darkness.

Before it, a short man stood on the ledge, his back hunched like a crow ready to leap. His face was a map of poorly healed scars, teeth stained with rust, crooked, half-eaten. His tongue, forked like a serpent's, slithered from his mouth, coiling around a lock of hair: long, dense, white with dark green streaks.

He inhaled it with a sick fervor, eyes half-lidded, a flush rising in his sunken cheeks.

"Hmmm... still warm..." he murmured, panting, nostrils flaring like an animal.

In the background, a voice shattered the silence: "Shit... we couldn't hold down a punk barely twenty?"

The speaker was a much taller man, leaning against a flaking wall. A thick patch covered his left eye; the right bore an unstable ocular implant, pulsing red with each electric flicker, as if moments from frying.

He ran a greasy hand through his hair, exhausted. "This is the day I lose my damn head."

From the shadows, a third figure emerged, a thin man wrapped head to toe in stained bandages, like a mummy that had never rested. His voice came muffled and hoarse, filtered through the filthy cloth:"You'd lose it either way."

"What?" the patched one raised his voice.

"The way Karmen's acting today... you really think you'll get out unscathed?"

The man with the patch sighed. His shoulders sagged. He rubbed his face with a dirty palm, the implant blinking once more. "If he had killed the kid... maybe I could've thrown him under the bus. Maybe just lose a finger. But now..."

He glanced toward the lock of hair the small man was still caressing, now between his fingers as though it were sacred silk. "Now it's on me."

"Just tell me this," said the bandaged one, leaning against the destroyed doorway. "How the hell did we end up mixed in with them?"

The patched man let out a bitter laugh, as if the question no longer had an answer. He shrugged. "That's life in the Subfundus. You climb, you fall. But in the end..."He pointed his thumb downward."It's always downhill."

The wrapped man crossed his arms and whispered in a low, grave tone: "Your boss is bound to change."

Silence.Then Karmen, the small man, still inhaling the strand of hair, tongue reverently tracing each thread like it were sacred, spoke without turning, noticing something beyond the window: "Oh... our reunion will be sooner than I thought, darling."

He smiled.Eyes wide.Face smeared with fresh blood, A small shard of glass embedded beneath his chin.

And without warning, he leapt.

"WHAT THE—" The man with the patch rushed to the window, eyes wide, But there was nothing. No body. No impact.

Only the fading trace of a tear in reality, spiraling closed in midair like a scar sewing itself shut.

He grinned, a mix of relief and nervous tension. "Heh... maybe I can keep my head."

"You still gotta deal with Karmen," the bandaged one grumbled, halfway to the window.

And then, one by one, they jumped.

✦ ✦ ✦

"ENOUGH!" The fist came down on the desk with a sharp thud. Papers, devices, and a half-full mug of tea jumped from the impact. A crack formed beneath the polished and tense wood.

"Ezra is dead." The voice was low, firm, and cutting, spoken from Bastian's lips like a truth he'd repeated to himself a hundred times.

"But…" A voice hesitated. Higher. Softer. More… stubborn.

Bastian turned his head, jaw clenched. "No more buts, Mei Lin." He inhaled, as if fighting to hold onto his composure, or his faith. "You're only making it harder for yourself."

She clenched her fists at her sides, caught between anger and hope.

"I know the sudden shift in his life status in the Convention's system shook you," Bastian continued, calmer, but still cold. "But you're smarter than this."

"Bastian's right," said Dorian, leaning back on a worn leather couch, twirling a teacup in his hands. The liquid inside quivered slightly.

"The rate of spoofers and identity forgers in the Central System, though low… is still real. It could've been anything: a hack, a read error, or just someone using a ghost ID. The number of variables is huge."

Mei Lin lowered her gaze. "But he was a noble…" Her voice came out like a thought slipping through her lips, quiet, warm.

"Exiled. And erased from his own bloodline's records," Kael interjected from where he leaned against the wall, his usual iciness intact. His eyes were half-closed, arms crossed, speaking like reciting a verdict.

"Not that it made much difference," said Lena, sipping the now-lukewarm tea from her cup, perched on the side of Bastian's desk. "Ezra was declared dead four years ago. A casualty of a rebel attack, remember? The same revolutionary cell that hates the noble castes, the Convention, and anything that breathes near the system."

"Just a pile of excuses." Edward, standing in front of Dorian, chewed his nails unconsciously. His gaze fixed somewhere distant, but his entire body trembled. "Everyone knows what really happened to him… He was—"

"Oh please." Nyra's sweet, ironic voice sliced through the air like cloying perfume. She sucked loudly on a lollipop, twirling the stick between her fingers like she was bored. "Ezra survived longer than anyone expected. For someone in his position… the miracle was that he lasted as long as he did."

Silence.

Dense. Heavy.

They knew the truth, though none dared speak it outright.

They were members of Ylliria's High Convention elite, the upper crust upon which the entire empire rested. Different families, yes. Different names, symbols, traditions. But their core values? The same.

In a garden forcibly cultivated, every weed had to be pulled.

And Ezra… Ezra had been a flower with too much potential. But he had wanted more. He had wanted to bear fruit. To become a tree..., Even knowing that was impossible for him.

And in the trying process, he poisoned himself. To them, he had become a threat. A weed with the fragrance of failure and shame.

"Mei Lin…" Beatriz stepped closer, placing a soft but steady hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I'd love to believe he's alive, too. But you know… that doesn't change what happened."

"Especially not four years later," Nyra threw in like sparks in a dry field. "It's a—"

She stopped. Two looks pierced her like spears, one from Beatriz, the other from Bastian.

Nyra snapped her tongue and rolled her eyes, impatient. 'What's the big deal? You all baby her too much…' But the thought stayed with her.

For now.

"Guys, aren't we getting off-topic?" The voice came from Rurik, who had remained silent until no, a quiet shadow in the corner of the room. He didn't look directly at anyone, but his presence hit harder than shouting. "I don't know about you... but I didn't spend two years mourning just to go through this all over again… for the same person."

The words, though cold, carried something deeper, restrained sorrow. And in that blank yet subtly menacing expression that settled on his face... everyone understood it was better not to press further.

Silence fell like a heavy curtain.

Mei Lin lowered her eyes. She gripped the fabric of her sleeves so tightly her fingers had lost their color. She bit her lower lip, trapping something between anger and sorrow.

"Sorry, Rurik. We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Bastian broke the silence, voice firm and measured. "Let's return to what truly matters."

Mei Lin clenched her fists even tighter. Every word she heard felt like added weight on her shoulders.

'So it doesn't matter if there's even a chance he's alive? even if it's just an impostor? None of you care?'

She wanted to scream.

But she didn't.

That was when Bastian stood. The quiet roll of the chair's wheels over marble echoed softly. He rested both hands on the desk, not in haste, not in anger. His eyes didn't seek anyone's; they stared into nothing. Or perhaps, into something only he could see.

"The point is…" He turned slowly, the subtle creak of the floor echoing like a misplaced whisper. His voice, once precise and composed, now rang with a polished harshness, like a blade being unsheathed behind a curtain of courtesy.

"It's been four years."

"Four years of searching, of unkept promises, of crossed-out names and unpaid debts."

"Four years since we founded this Guild. Since we bet on strangers and made a vow."

"Since we stopped being mere pawns of the High Convention… and began playing our own game."

"Four years since Ezra died."

He drew in a long breath. The sound sliced through the room like the exhale of a freshly opened grave.

"And since then, not a single result. Not after the Great Revelation. Not with this darned blessing. One person down, but one hundred and ninety-nine more gained, and still..., nothing."

That last word hung in the air like a final verdict. Plain. Undecorated. But heavy enough to resonate in everyone's gut.

The room seemed smaller now. More stifling. The tension didn't just rise, it took form. Like a storm trapped inside a glass dome.

Bastian finally raised his gaze. One by one, he looked each of them in the eye.

"So, once again…" he said, each word striking like the beat of a war drum.

"Tell me… how do we win this race?"